


Haunted House

by jiemae



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiemae/pseuds/jiemae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is a mess—a very handsome one—but a mess, nonetheless, and most of this comes down to the fact that he can see ghosts. His entire life has been wrecked by it, although you'll never get <i>that<i> out of him. Put merely, Jean doesn't know how to handle this shit like he says he can. But there will come a day where he's honest, and Marco is the key. </i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Simply put, Marco is a very distressed ghost—a very hopeful one—but distressed, nonetheless, and most of this comes down to the fact that he has been trapped in the same old house for centuries, living with his witch sister and several other ghosts inside the very place that got him killed.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>When Jean is sent to investigate the haunted house, he thought it would be a simple get-in-there-get-out type of mission. Instead, what he got was a whole lot of bullshit and the request to help a silly ghost make a haunted house for the public.</i>
  </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lownly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lownly/gifts).



> I don’t think very many will read this. I’m just posting this just in case anyone does and if you, the person reading this, enjoy it just as much as I loved writing it, then thank you. Any support of any kind really means a lot. Sorry if my Jean sucks; he’s so hard for me to write for. One last thing, I’m trying out a new writing style while still using my other style of several other stories so there will be inevitable mistakes to overlook on your part before I get around to fixing them.
> 
> This was particularly inspired by Lownly's well-known fic and there is a little reference to it in the first chapter.

 J E A N

“So, you’re heading to the place now, aren’t you?” Armin’s voice asks, crackling through the sketchy cell reception as I opened my car door and stepped out. Mere seconds later, I slam the door shut, not even wincing at the stridently abrasive sound that echoes within earshot.

“Hell yeah,” I reply smugly, looking around myself and gazing up at the imposing, domineering mansion that sat atop the hill I had just traveled up to in my beat up, puttering out Volkswagen. Just the right sort of asshole car to shadow over the natural given staple for my kind, the very one that had been set up by somewhat above-average TV show. Then followed by, on my part, a shit ton of chilidogs that were probably enough to send me into a food coma. The evidence to that last bit could only be spotted by the traces of Sonic wrappers and a scattering of a few other pieces of trash I had yet to clean out. The irony of it all was truly a masterpiece. Pleased, I wickedly grin before announcing to Armin, “In fact, I’m already here.”

Immediately I hear a low almost-curse coming from him before he simply sighs, “Jean, be careful. The stories coming out of this place—”

“I’ll be fine,” I inform him, impatient even as I blink around myself sluggishly. Abruptly and in that moment, I first felt the usual zap of energy against my skin. But before I can even get a read on things, a spark of residual energy hits me with a ferocity I never even thought to be possible. At least not from the very get go. So, even at the very entrance it was already showcasing itself to be as every bit active as it had promised to be in the dozens upon dozens of stories about the place. The fact that reception here sucks kind of solidifies that electronics would be entirely useless when put inside the mansion, messing with any and all signals. At that thought, I look down at my smartphone and watch it glow brightly, illuminating the dirt road I had parked on.

I bring it back to my ear, catching Armin’s newest lecture just in time. I’m instantly met with his soft, tired voice that only sounds fractionally more energetic than earlier as he launches into his regularly scheduled program of a pissy ‘know-it-all’ scripted citation that comes just by being named Armin Arlert and raised by a sixty year old dude who had pretty much raised me too. Since the wee age of fifteen, wasn't it? Yeah, that was the age I got my first crash course into what it was like to be yelled at the Arlert way.

“What are you doing there at this point in time _now_? It’s like…two at night over there! Dark, with really active spooks, residual energies, and the whole nine yards! Jean, for the love of god, how do you even plan to get in? There would be no one to let you get past the gates, first of all, being how secretive the owner is, and— to make things worse— our sources have told us how completely impossible it is to enter without their help, what with all the wards and spells that have been put to use there.”

I roll my eyes, having expecting such a reaction in the first place and already trained properly for surviving the blast of his dutiful Mother Hen oration. “Armin, I think you’re forgetting that normal rules don’t technically apply to me. Also,” I murmur, making my way over to my trunk, popping it open as I yank my duffel bag of equipment out and swing it over my shoulder, “I am the best god damned locks smith in the world.”

He snorts, “Knowing you, there’s an even bigger ego to go with that useless talent.”

“It’s a real struggle,” I say tactlessly, “to be so perfect. I pity everyone else for not being me. Even you, Apparently-Mom.”

“Asshole,” I hear in the background of Armin’s side of things. I feel my face morph instantly into a scowl when I recognize the voice for who it is.

“Tell Eren to shut his stupid bitch ass mouth up,” I instruct, walking up to the wrought iron fence with a pinched expression as I notice the disturbing lack of aforementioned locks to pick. I sigh, gazing up at the sheer height and magnitude of the overbearing mass of metal, glaring up at the pointed tops of the railings. “Listen,” I mutter, eyeing the construct closely, “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

“Fine, but Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not invincible so be careful.”

Forcing cheer in my voice, I retort with, “Armin, you know I always am. Now, I’ll talk to you later.” With that, I tapped the ‘end-call’ button on the screen before recalling an older time when slamming a phone shut at a finished conversation always just felt _so good_ to do. Sort of like it was an actual end to something instead of the boring tap. Of course, that was only a very small thing I missed about my younger days with technology. These days I'm all about the fanciful apps and Candy Crush addictions, if I'm being honest—which I always am.

I shake my head, clearing it before refocusing my thoughts on what actually mattered; breaking into this two century year old manor to excavate some ghosties and try not to be fucked by them before I got the chance to exorcise their spirits and send them to what I could only address as ‘The Great Beyond’. This clearly was going to be _quite_ the night, with how big a haul it was planned to be. I shiver with anticipation, just thinking about the chance to flex my muscles and maybe even work up a sweat this time. There just wasn't anything like the high that came with a good night's job. Which is why I had come so late in the first place. Armin hates it but I rather like sneaking about like a raccoon in search of prey. The comparison works very well I think. I'm just as feral, if not more so, as they are. A bit crazy.

Actually, no I'm not, let me explain.

I mean, I _know_ what you’re thinking, you who are sitting at home and relaxing on the couch as if there were no such thing as ghosts, or perhaps already knowing they exist but having no idea what _I_ have to do with anything. By the way, the answer to your impending question would be a big, fat, stagnant, resounding ‘ _no_ ’. I’m not crazy and I’m definitely not breaking and entering to steal some altruistic jewel to strike it rich fast. I’m not that sort of guy. Which is a very respectable, upright thing, very good for the folks that I've snuck in on when they were least expecting it. I'm sure it'd cause a couple heart attacks if anyone saw how long my list accumulates to on how many homes I have crashed into, literally and figuratively both. I swear, I deserved a damn cookie for how fastidious I had become with the trust given to me by my clients after they signed the contract and then took my advice to leave the house for a night or two.

Also, yes, by clients I mean that they are actual, living and breathing people. Unfortunate souls that have gotten themselves mixed up with bad mojo. That's where I come in to save the day, like a goddamn hero that would most likely never get the cut for a big blockbusting movie hit. So, in short, I get paid to reap the dead—mostly. There  _are_ always cases I take on even if there's no money to be received because, well, I  _care_ about public safety. Kind of. Okay, it's mostly because this shit is fun as all hell.

So yeah, instead of making highway robbery with my much envied and sought after skills—despite what Armin said earlier—of slipping in and out undetected and leaving not even a single trace, I end up helping people who offer to hire me to get rid of unwanted guests. Now, that is not, I warn all who aim to try, the easiest way to make a living.

Backing me in my most heroic life of wandering the world and getting rid of the _nastier_ foes in the world, is the usual rag-tag group of college graduates that have student loans that could rise up to their noses by the names of Armin, Mikasa and Eren, and two very adult looking adults matched with a third, more shortish adult. I add the third person as a separate entity because Levi Ackerman belongs to a class of his own with his impressive outlook on life and forever marbleized expression of utter, complete contempt for everything except Erwin and Hange. The lot of us form a cheesy, if a little bit eccentric group of paranormal investigators with one special tiny twist; we are all supernatural-slash-paranormal beings ourselves making it our cliche mission to purge the baddies of our kind and kick the ghosts up to wherever their spirits were meant to be. I like to think that we’re more superhero-y than anything else. But Eren—and possibly Connie (an old friend who was pointedly human and not involved with any previously mentioned dealings with the oddities of the world)—would never let me live that down.

Taking the words of many before me, I didn’t chose the thug life, the thug life chose me. Genetically that is. I’m a Necromancer, an honest to goodness ‘I can resurrect the dead and make them do my bidding’ Necromancer. Which is why I caution, if you are but a mere norm, to keep in mind that not just anyone can waltz into the world I worked in and expect to be successful at it. That type of person would sooner die than anything else. So yeah, I’m sort of lucky in that I’m not dead yet, despite the hundreds of close calls that come hand in hand with everything else in my line of labor. I’ve been doing it for quite the long time, for such an extensive stretch of my life, that most things have become second nature and I forget that I’ve only been sucked into this world for a mere ten years. I was fourteen when I first realized that Mr. Charlie from down the street had no physical form to anybody but myself in the quite small town I grew up in Louisiana. Sounds like a long time, sure, but it isn’t.

Ten years could go by in a flash. Burning so brightly past you that you could just _blink_ and feel the difference in the air and yet still have to take a moment to register the change. In ten years, _you_ become different. An altered you that diverged due to a simple epiphany that could have just as like _not_ happen. Schrödinger’s Cat, a special experiment done with a cat to theorize about possible alternate realities. The experiment went a little like this: stuff a cat in a box (because that’s smart) and then open it. Simple as that. See, the actual theory was implemented once the outcome of opening the box was determined. They looked into two possibilities (although knowing how confusing timelines go, there were possibly a shit ton more). One, the cat could be alive, breathing, and completely fine. Two, the cat could be dead. In the theory, both realities existed alongside the person making the discovering, their realities splitting off once the turnout had been revealed. Yeah, I know, confusing and jumbling, but I’m the type to get lost in thought over the weird things and marvel over how different my life could have been. First off, I’d probably be left like my dad, who had never been in my life, save for the first three years of it before he got admitted into a psychiatric ward. I think the only reason I didn’t believe I really lost my marbles was because of how entirely sane I felt when realizing the truth. But then, wouldn’t that be how most of the crazies felt?

Either way, moving on before I fuck even harder with your brain, I’m a natural at what I do. Sometimes I still feel like it had been only yesterday when I had found my true calling. Other times I feel like it was an entire light year away from me, perhaps even surpassing a dimension in time.

Upon realizing my drifting train of thought, I have to shake my head to clear it. After all, it's not the brightest idea to get lost when surrounded by such a powerful mass of energy. 

“Let’s get going,” I mutter beneath my breath. “Time to suit up, Jean Kirstein, as you risk your very life to bring peace to the many ghosts that dwell within.” I slide my phone in my back pocket before tossing my duffel bag over the fence with a hefty through. Free of any extra weight, I smooth back my mussed hair before grabbing on the rusted bars and jutting my feet against the lower ones. Beneath my breath I hum my own personal theme song, grinning when I find it’s easier than expected to lift myself up onto the upper part of the fence. Yet the difficulty comes in when I reach the very top. Careful, as ordered to be by my mother hen friend, I poise myself to put my three years of gymnastics to good work in flipping myself over the very top and landing with the elegance of a cat on the other side.

It came as _quite_ the surprise when, before I can even be positioned properly, I’m pushed over the edge like a bag of feathers, all by what feels like a harsh wind slapping against my back.

I land painfully on the breaking, fracturing concrete floor before letting out a muffled groan, inwardly suspecting my assailant is yet another shitty asshole ghost whose only kick in life is getting to watch me roll up and whine about the injustices in the world. Too bad for this spirit, I’m not very much the type of guy to do that. Everything hurts as I struggle to my knees, wheezing and coughing while I fight to breathe in a simple lungful of air. Blood rushing through my body in the form of an adrenaline high, I glare daggers up at the fence and find the culprit sitting atop of it with a wicked grin and laughter echoing in my ears as he tilts his head back.

He’s only a boy, dressed in a tiny, form fitting suit that looks too old and yet too fine for him to be just any pauper kid off the street. I can tell, by way of the buttons on his clothes and the aged feel of his aura, that he isn’t a modern child either. I scowl up at the ghost and finally manage to croak out a resounding “ _Fuck_ ,” before finally regaining the ability to stand. Groaning, I’m quick to assess the damage and I instantly hiss when I feel the sharp unexpected sting on my lower back at my right hip. I lift up the hoodie first, careening my head to eye the blood that seeps through the cotton white tee I had thrown on sluggishly at my hotel earlier that morning. I move onto the underneath, gingerly lifting up the clothe before gazing at the gash on my skin and have to groan out my frustrations. It’s nothing but a flesh wound, but it still hurts like a bitch to have.

The kid fades away, still laughing as I scowl darkly at where he had just been.

Little fucker, see if I try to do anything nice for him later on.

Childish thoughts of revenge aside, I reach into my duffel bag and slap a Band-Aid on my injury before zipping it closed with a huff. Ready to go, I proceed up the long winded, veering, and cracking road up to the castle-like mansion that sits at the top of the hill, overlooking the small, slowly turning city, town. Like the locals had said, and what I had seen for myself, Trost Manor had everything going for it to be known as a completely cool kick-ass haunted house. It was like an amusement park’s wet dream to make money off of, just knowing the history behind the aging, crippling home that had treated all visitors with only fear and pain. Hell, even previous owners had only been met with slow, agonizingly dreadful deaths. On that same thought, I was under the impression that some time ago there was an incident involving one of those fear-seekers and their death. That was the story that had drawn me here, knowing that only the severe _get the_ fuck  _out now_ haunts involved the actual deaths of people on site. To make things weirder, the very story hadn’t even made it big. It had been a popular story for a good day before it quickly faded to the background of obscurity.

Suddenly feeling gung-ho about the entire situation, I quickly walk up to the deteriorating wooden porch. With hesitant, watchful steps, I abysmally note how entirely too wide the expansive veranda truly is. I tread carefully before finding how surprisingly sturdy it is, despite its obvious age. I eye the snowy paint chips peeling on the thick white columns that hold the splintering roof up and note the rusted nails that keep it all together. Unpredictably enough, there is no cliché touch to my grand entrance, at least not one that would leave my foot shoved into the aging wood and an expletive on my lips. Instead, it’s smooth sailing as I walk up to the door and eye the type of lock on the massive, double door entry.

I’m pleasantly stunned to find it’s a simple one, and one with a door handle I could probably break off with a good tug. Seemingly by good luck on the lock part, I pick it easily without any problems and ease the door slowly open. Cue the eerie creaking door sound effects as I walk into every horror movie ever to exist. I roll my eyes even as I resist the temptation to laugh, taking in the deep red of the wallpaper and the plethora of creepy ass paintings that line the walls of the hallway that I make my way through slowly. It’s a horrible cliché when I find that the paintings hold that certain optical illusion that had made such a staple in the horror genre as a whole. The eyes followed me, possibly literally. So fitting.

Kissing my fingertips, I mime the classic stereotypical Italian’s expression of a job well done.

Inevitably I make my way to a choice, gazing at my three options of a) going through the left door, b) going through the right door and c) continuing down the darkened hall. Obviously the splitting of universes would continue and I would only get to see one of the choices outcome. Which is entirely too unfair. With a grimace, I study the two doors and make my pick easily enough as I go through the _right_ one. Get it? It was the sort of pretentious assholery that I stuck to like a fish to water. Glub, glub, motherfucker. Man, I am such a Class A punster. Long live world play and all the literary devices that go with it.

Puns aside, the jokes on me as soon as I cross the threshold.

I meet the eyes, or lack thereof, of a small dark skinned girl with a lace cap who giggles just as soon as she senses my presence.

“Have you come to play with me?” Her voice is light, softly charismatic and carefree just like any other girl her age should sound like. Yet despite this, I’m entirely too certain that her type of _playing_ would not be the tea-parties and dress up that come hand in hand with fainthearted princesses. Just by looking at her state, it’s clear to see what type of scare she is. A typical Spectral with an atypical party costume. Cool.

This one means business.

Ah, sorry there. Let me clear things up for the less educated masses out there that know jack shit about real ghosts. Ghosts fit into three categories—not including the plausible subcategories—that are important to remember; Spectral, Residual, and Solids. This little girl is the first type on the short list, the second most common type after Residuals—which weren’t really ghosts, and more just looping memories of dead people from the emotional times of the past—and sad to say, the worst kind of Spectral. The aforementioned kind of ghost had special attributes to them that could send them into a subcategory, which is never good nor Necromancer friendly. The distinctive trait is entirely visible, however, making it easy to know which asshole scares to be wary of. Basically, if they show, in their visual forms, the wounds in which they were inflicted at death, those were the kind that were more prone to reenacting their deaths on some unsuspecting stooge to continue an almost ritualistic cycle of doom and gloom.

And oh yeah, they absorbed their kills like some sort of shitty villain in an even shitter comic series, only to increase their powers depending on the pureness of the soul. I guess one could even compare it to the Aztecs that would literally rip the beating hearts out of sacrifices to the gods and would then eat everything else to gain the ‘life energy’ of the poor hapless fella. Either way, I’m in for quite the show if this girl has had any kills up her cotton white sleeves.

The little girl giggles before darting at me, hands outstretched as a distinguishing shine to her fingers alerts me to her, ahem, _oddities._

“Woah, woah! Buy me a drink first at least,” I tactlessly shout out as I dodge the unexpectedly razor sharp claws. I blink before saying the obvious, “Looks like you’ve gotten a few nice, uh, _upgrades_.”

Precipitously, I delve into my duffel bag before shoving it aside and pull them out, my own silver knives that had the classic dousing of holy water—which doesn’t really work on Spectral spooks; I just like to continue a streak of more ostentatious assholery that will inevitably get me skewered on my own weapons like some big ironic cleansing of my dickish self from the world. Nevertheless, I don’t really fancy _tonight_ being the time for me to die when I’m still currently waiting on my new laptop to get in the mail. So instead of letting the bloodthirsty child wipe the floor with me and spew my guts on the linoleum, I do a flashy performance with my knives, a beautiful whir in the air like sweet music to my ears as I watch my show end with a quick toss-up.

The girl has her eyes on the gleaming flying object when I take the given chance. With her distracted, I close my eyes before transferring my consciousness into a completely transfixed, meditative stage. Moving on muscle memory alone, I feel the charge in my hands build up before seeing the bluish glow that envelopes them when I bring myself back into the fight.

With a near yawn-worthy easiness, I bring my hands to her shoulders and watch the blue sparks burn through her darkest parts. However, before I can watch the pretty light show, I feel myself suck in a breath that resounds in the dusty air sharply, like the hiss of a cat. I’m ransacked with her memories then, everything; the good and bad of her entire life’s story.

There are many reasons why a ghost does not pass on and one of the most common is the casually brought up cause, the classic TV trope of ‘unfinished business’. Marcella, I learn her name, is similar to the cliché in an almost sickening way. Having died at the mere age of seven, her reason for having been stuck for such a long time was the fervently intense emotions of hatred that had been imprinted by her attacker; a man that never served the time for his crime. Words could not be put to the negative feeling that came with an unresolved turnout, especially as she had been influenced by her mother’s reaction to the never answered questions of her daughter’s fate.

“Why are you crying, Jean?” Her voice is light, softly charismatic and carefree like any other girl her age should sound like. Yet despite this, I’m entirely too certain that she’s crying just as much as I am at what felt like a frozen moment of time. This is decidedly the shitty part to any and all cleansings that I do. Living someone's life tends to make one weepy eyed. I want to turn away then but I know I can't, glued in place as I watch the blue sparks seep into her skin and clears away the dark grey of being a Spectral for so long.

“You get to see your mother again,” I whisper in reply, croaking the words out even as my shoulders are wracked with her own emotions. My hands have still not left her shoulders even I could upon noticing the spread of blue that I had caused; we are still connected, for better or for worse.

“I’ll say hi to yours too, Jean,” she replies and I look to see her smiling through the tears, relief and comfort finally there on her soft face. Marcella has the prettiest brown eyes…

I smile crookedly back.

When the silence comes between us, nothing more to say, I pull away. The blue glow dissipates quickly, similar to the now cloying form of Marcella.

I don’t look away. I have been through this too many times by now for me to become an emotional wreck every time I perform a cleansing and send off. Still, I can't deny how much it hurts to say goodbye and I've never figured out how to be rid of it, the feelings that linger long after a death. 

“Oh,” she murmurs, just as I note how she no longer had feet or legs, her voice a simple echo of what it used to be, “would you please do me a favor?”

“Uh, sure?”

“My grandnephew; please save him before it’s too late. I know now that only _you_ can do it.”

I blink but, before I can ask her anything relating to her cryptic words, she’s gone, having left in the form of swaying golden dust.

“That was,” I start, roughly rubbing away the stupid wetness on my cheeks, “odd.”

Well, with that understatement of the century made, I pick up my knives and duffel bag before leaving the room. Obviously, after what just happened, I should probably consider becoming a skeptic of what _right_ really means in terms of letting it decide my fate. Plain to see with foresight, I can now understand what a truly stupid decision making system I allowed to run my life figuratively—possibly literally—to the ground.

Deciding, however, that that would be a concern for another day and time, I continue on with my illegal traipsing and frolicking of the mansion.

It doesn’t take long for another entity to arrive, but this one is far more useful and considerably kinder in terms of Marcella’s earlier, grouchier form.

It’s a slim man, one with freckles and a flashing, comforting smile, greeting me with an air-like hug before pointing at the doors that line what seems to be a never ending hall. “Our rooms are all filled up, sorry. All filled up. You will need to return later young man if you would like to stay in the Trost Manor.”

Residual, but _also_ a subcategory Residual.

This man was clearly performing something he often had to do, back when the place had been a frequently visited bed and breakfast in its area. This had been before all of the murders had happened, I believed, if my research into the place hadn’t led me into being a liar. He was a special one, however, as instead of merely being a lingering energy in the home, he had the facility to interact with the living. Or rather, the memory of him had the ability to do so. It was quite the rare outcome but not entirely unfounded. It would kind of suck ass if he weren’t a residual energy though. That would surely be one hell of a hell.

Nevertheless, I push past him and pay no mind when he follows after, prattling on and off about the guests in the rooms we pass by. I do listen to him, however, as I had a pretty good thought that even as a Residual, he has a far better idea of its occupants than I do.

Eventually I reach the point where the home finally opens up into a foyer that just as soon leads to a kitchen on the right and another set of halls on the left. The first two offered nothing to me other than the clear idea that someone, possibly the landowner, lived there and ate a shit ton of peanut butter sandwiches. Either way, when I’m done with my entirely too useless snooping, I head into the halls. Just as I step onto the carpet, I’m hit with an ear piercing shriek and I swing to look behind me as I note that a woman, eyes wide enough to pop out of her head, begins to run at me with a focused, angry look.

I don’t even waste the time to figure out what it exactly is before I book it down the hallways and keep running when it becomes clear to me that she wasn’t going to relent. Legs pumping at full speed, my duffel hits against my sore back harshly before I make any sort of progress in my escape. Yet finally, when all hope seemed lost, I spot a fucking _glowing_ red door at the very end of the hall. That was me being sarcastic by the way. There’s no way in hell I would think that going into the creepy shining room would be a _good_ thing. I’m may do dumb shit but I am not stupid.

However, a hard choice is left in my hands as I hear the woman closing in on me and I look to the mysterious red door.

Okay, alternate realities don’t fail me now.

I open the door hoping, almost breathlessly, that behind it is not a dead cat. That would just be an ironic pain in the ass and I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with what could assuredly be a metaphor for my entire life.

Instead, all I find is a boy with freckles and a classic parted haircut that looks up, blinking up in clearly stunned surprise. “ _Excuse me_?” His voice is a mere whisper and oh dear _god_ , he’s adorable. Kind of like a dog, but one that you meet on the run from an unknown _crazy_ and need to decide if he’s just cute enough to attempt to put your life in his hands. He’s also underage if the largely innocent look in his eyes was of any indication. He doesn’t look any older than sixteen. At the very least there was an age gap of around eight years.

“Boy,” I say, running my hand over my mouth and five o’clock shadow before continuing, “I need your help from a mad woman out there. I fear for my life and the upholding of the law.”

The teen arches his brows, obviously unimpressed with my excuse for disturbing his reading time, before a tiny quirk of his lips makes its way to his face even with his pale and haggard complexion.

“You’re the one breaking the law,” the teen reminds him quietly, “because you really shouldn’t be here.”

I wait for the change in his demeanor, for him to change into something that wouldn’t even be his final form before wiping the floor with me and eating my guts in an Aztecan ritual to gain my life’s energy even if it were vilest soul out there to be devoured and to let my blood seep into the good carpet and coat the walls.

Instead he pleasantly smiles, “but I’m not the one who minds the company. Didn’t you know, stranger, that a Witch lives here? It really wouldn’t be good for a Necromancer to be caught stealing her captured souls and the like. She worked very hard for them.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you have a name, Solid?”

“So you’re good enough to tell the difference but not good enough to make safe decisions,” the teen observed with a frown, cocking his head to the side as if listening for something before murmuring out, “Marco. My name is Marco.”

“And the lady at the door?” I ask, jerking a thumb in the direction of the entryway that seemed to be locked. One look at Marco told me exactly why it was lodged shut. Solids were the rarest type of ghost, and ones who contained an insurmountable amount of power that usually came with a stroke of luck or the fashion in which they died.

“My sister,” Marco replies with after a missed beat of silence that had been filled by the muffled sound of pounding that hit against the mahogany door, “Marceline. You?”

“Jean,” I answer simply, studying him in a newfound light.

“ _Jsh-aahn_ ,” he repeats. “It’s French.”

“Yup.”

“I’ve never met a French Necromancer before.”

“Well, I’ve never met a Solid before either, so I guess that makes us even,” I try for a causal grin as I cross my arms but that just as quickly shifts into a frown. Alarmed by my distinctive lack of guard around an entire entity I have no experience with, I consider my options. For all I know I could already be physically dead while he had already sucked my soul out and placed some eternal illusion over me. I wouldn’t put it past a Solid. If I had an inexplicable amount of energy to toss around I sure as hell wouldn’t spend my days reading _books_. I thought back to the Aztecans once more and envisioned what their rituals would go like.

Marco visibly winces, “Can you not project your thoughts so strongly? I’m not some sort of monster, you know.” He sniffs, obviously not even believing himself for a second.

I consider this before tossing my duffel bag to the side and sidling up beside him on the book infested floor with a genuine grin, “Hi.”

He blinks and from here I can see in clear detail the freckles that dotted his cheeks and nose. Hell, I was fairly certain he even had a few on his lips. They twitch, before unfurling into a full blown smile, “Hello.”

I meet his eyes before saying anything else and am stunned when Marcella’s chocolate brown orbs come to mind. I blink, release a tiny breath of air when the connection clicks, then I murmur, “Sorry, I tend to think a lot. I have to warn you though. The longer I stick around you the more you’ll be subject to the morbid and disturbing mind of Jean Kirstein, world’s greatest Necromancer and a generally shitty person with a penchant for literary word plays and an even shittier brand of cigarettes to send me off on an early death. Also coffee, gotta have that.” I frown, surprised by the literal word vomit that had just been spewing out of my mouth. That was...unusual, to say the least.

“Why?”

I bat an eye at him owlishly.

“Why does it have to be like that?”

“It just is.”

“That’s weird. And depressing.”

“Probably.” You don’t know the half of it. “So, what’s your story?”

“Well I died—”

“No, not that. I mean, like…you. Who are you? I already know your name. I also know that you’re dangerously charismatic to the point that I will literally ramble on about thing that make no fucking sense—to which you don’t even bat an eye—and I’ve only known you for about, hmm, five minutes? Jesus fuck, shut me up please and answer the goddamn question.” I pause, sucking in a breath before interrupting the open mouthed Marco, “and no fucking remarking on my not letting you talk.”

He only slightly smirks before saying lightly, “Will you tell me if I tell you?”

“What, I’ll show you, you show me, sort of deal?” I ask, suddenly starting to feel nervous by the look he gave.

“Only if you want it to be,” Marco says softly, then he stands, “I haven’t met with anybody new in a very long time, Jean.”

“It’s been long enough to become a Solid,” I remark, sort of enjoying the way he smiles at that.

“I suppose I’ll show you then, Necromancer, and maybe then you could help me.”

“Help you?” I inquire but before I could say another word, Marco moves to stand directly beside me, his hands reaching out to gently cup my face...then his forehead touches mine.

And nothing is as it was.

 


End file.
